Liquid Courage
by Dizzy-Dreamer
Summary: "So why have you been gazing longingly at the back of his stupid blonde head all night?" One scotch down, Marty gives Payson the pep-talk of her life.


_I just cannot let this damn show go. This was written for a challenge on another site wherein the writer was challenged to include lyrics from a song as dialogue in context. The song given to me was 'Hero' by Regina Spektor._ _For the record: I loved writing Marty and I really, really wish we'd seen more of him on the show, particularly interacting with Sasha._

* * *

"My God, he never ever saw it coming, did he? Hell, I don't think any of us did." Marty Walsh took a large mouthful of scotch from the glass in his hand, nearly draining it, before slamming it down on the bar a little harder than he intended. He winced, both at the burn in his throat and the crash of glass on wood. Payson's head spun around to look at him, blonde braid swinging over her shoulder and tapping her lightly on the chest as it came to rest. Her brow furrowed as she tried to deconstruct the meaning behind her former coach's words.

"Who saw what?"

"You, Payson. No one saw you coming." At Marty's explanation, Payson's frown deepened and she took a dainty sip of the sparkling champagne in her hand. She screwed up her face in disgust before pushing it across the bar away from her. A lifetime of careful dieting and no alcohol left her with low tolerance and even less taste for the 'adult beverages' she had always been denied. She turned back to Marty with a look that clearly read _'are you really that dumb?'_

"Marty, you found me in St Paul when I was twelve. You obviously did see me coming."

Marty sighed and, drink in hand, gestured across the room to where Sasha was uncomfortably shifting on the spot, caught in conversation with several members of the national committee. No doubt Sasha would explain the committee's latest schemes the following day as they watched their athletes compete at the US Classic. After a stellar performance at the Olympics in London, Payson turned to coaching and she had no shortage of job offers—but when Sasha had presented her with a set of freshly-cut keys to the Rock, she couldn't say no.

"Not to melt the ice cold heart of Sasha Belov," Marty explained almost dejectedly. He drained the final few drops of scotch from his glass with another sigh.

"Marty, I don't—what are you talking about?" Payson was more confused than ever. As though he knew he was being talked about, Sasha chose that moment to look over, blue eyes locking with Payson's slightly stunned green ones. He rolled his eyes dramatically with the barest hint of impatience, before turning back to his conversation.

"You never saw it either, huh?" Marty smiled ruefully. "Man, you always were thirteen going on forty-five, Payson."

"Will you just cut the cryptic bullshit, Marty?" Payson asked irritably. Suddenly, she felt exhausted. The journey from Boulder to Chicago had been uneventful—a bus to Denver and only two and a half hours in the air to Chicago—but Payson felt weary enough to have travelled for days.

"You've been in love with him since he walked into the Rock—longer, I'm willing to bet." Payson opened her mouth to protest but Marty continued before she could speak. "And that idiot fell in love with you around about the same time." He shook his head with the same rueful smile he had shown earlier.

"I'm not in love with him, Marty, he's—_was_—my coach. Now he's my boss," Payson answered patiently.

"So why have you been gazing longingly at the back of his stupid blonde head all night, and why did he spend the entire flight to Chicago looking at you with the same look I've only ever seen before when he's flipping over the P-bars and nothing in the world can touch him?"

Payson grabbed the champagne and took a large gulp, downing half the glass and grimacing as she swallowed.

"You're seeing things, Marty," Payson insisted tiredly. Marty raised an eyebrow and for a moment, Payson was sure her mother had given Marty lessons in facial expressions.

"Yeah, and I'm the God-damn pope, Payson. He's not your coach anymore."

Payson drained the last of her champagne, the grimace less pronounced as the alcohol already in her system inhibited her taste buds.

"You know what? You're right." She pushed herself off the bar stool and cut purposefully through the crowd of coaches, chaperones and gymnastics event officials.

Marty left the party a little later, chuckling softly to himself as he passed two blonde heads pressed close together on the patio.

"You go, Payson."


End file.
